Now and Then
Is this a real video, Mum writes, or is this AI? I’m still half asleep. The light in my room is the honey-gold of early mornings and my curtains shiver with barely-felt air. Squinting, I click on the link. The two remaining Beatles walk along Abbey Road. I recognise it because I was there with Mum over fifteen years ago. She smiled widely at the camera that live-streamed her image to anyone watching, including Dad and, possibly, my brother. I’d rarely seen her that happy: she kept crossing the road on the famous white markings and waved like one of those solar-powered figurines of the Queen. I was a teenager and stood by the side of the road, elbows angled awkwardly away from my body. I didn’t want to be there, by that road or inside my body. Things felt far away from me.
In the video, Paul and Ringo look like humans, walk like humans, and they say things like, Let’s do this one more time for the lads, which seems uncanny and not like something Paul and Ringo would say, but at the same time … the fingers are there, and their smooth faces move like smooth human faces. I’m still squinting. I need a coffee. They pause in front of the crossing and the moment is heavy with meaning. You’re not gonna walk barefoot, are ya? Surely, no human speaks like that? I try to count the beats between the changing camera angles, but I forget how many AI is supposed to be able to do.
Another text pops up at the top of the screen. I like that they do it for the boys, Mum writes, followed by three red hearts. She loves the Beatles more than most things. If you want to engage her in conversation, it’s an easy trick. On screen, the two remaining Beatles cross Abbey Road one more time.
When we stood by the side of Abbey Road, Mum tried to convince me to cross it so she could take a picture. ‘It will be a memory,’ she said, and I refused, because I was dressed all in black and felt outside of myself at all times. I didn’t want anyone to look at me. It made my mum sad, which made me sad, then irritated, and we had a bit of an argument—until I hurried across, itchy and with my head down, and she took a video on her shitty digicam and almost cried from happiness.
It’s probably not real, I write, but it’s more of a feeling. I checked and the account has like 1000 videos, that’s usually not a good sign.
Mum sends me back a sad emoji with a single tear coming from its eyes. Would have been nice, she writes.
It’s not the worst thing, in the grand scheme of things. It’s just a little annoying.
Sara Bucher has a Master of Creative Writing from the University of Auckland. She currently lives in Switzerland.